Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

7. Clara

Chapter 7

Clara

I ’m in my bed, phone in hand, counting down the minutes until Walker and Trips come home when I get a text from my mom.

Your father’s crying.

The stupid tears I thought I’d banished from my repertoire well up in my eyes, making the words wobbly and hard to read. My phone buzzes again, and I know my mom has ended her silence.

You did this. Your selfishness has your father weeping into his pillow.

After all we did for you, you can’t even show up for Christmas?

Meals, a roof over your head, all those ridiculously expensive running shoes.

All those meets your dad drove you to. Cheered you on at.

All those medical bills with your knee. All the physical therapy appointments.

And this is how you repay us?

Shit. This is so much worse than I thought it would be. I’d hoped that eventually, my mom might apologize, understand that what she did was wrong. That love can’t be earned, measured and doled out like so many peas on your plate.

I’m so fucking dumb. Of course she won’t say sorry. Nothing is ever her fault. It’s always mine or my dad’s fault. Her clients and her friends. The other drivers on the road and the idiots in the parking lot.

My phone continues to buzz, and I can’t look away, my heart pounding in my chest .

I had to lie to my brother yesterday. I said you had the flu.

You made me a liar, Clara.

And you’ve made your father cry.

I’m dialing before I can stop myself. It picks up on the third ring. “Clara-girl?”

My dad’s voice is ragged. My mom wasn’t lying. Tears threaten, but I hold them back. “Merry Christmas, Dad!” I say, forcing cheer where I feel none.

“Merry Christmas, mija. How are you? Doing anything special today?”

“Not today, but I had a big feast with Walker and Trips on the day before Christmas Eve. Those two will be back any minute, and I’m sure we’ll do something fun.”

“Excellent. I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

“How about you?”

The pause is long, and my heart clenches in my chest.

“I miss you. But I understand why you stayed away.”

Silence follows that statement.

“Dad—” I say, but he cuts in .

“No, Clara. I wasn’t done. Not really. I just need, or I want, to say that, well, I’ve had some time to think, and I don’t know. I guess, Dios mio, I’m struggling with my words here, Clara.”

“I think I get it, Dad.” Swallowing back my fear, I try to parse out what he’s not saying. “You’re sorry that you didn’t notice how bad things had gotten with Mom sooner, right?”

“Yeah. That.”

“What about how bad things have gotten between you and Mom?”

He sighs. “Your mom loves hard. And she hurts easy. Don’t worry about me.”

Of course I worry about him. I’d be foolish not to. My phone buzzes a few more times in my hand—my mom continuing her recriminations.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Clara-girl.”

We sit in awkward silence, neither of us knowing how to continue this conversation. It’s too heavy for Christmas. But it needed to happen. The back door unlocks, and I twist in time to see Trips marching past with a bag slung over his broad shoulders. “I’ve gotta go, Dad. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I hang up and trail after Trips, needing an actual person close to me after all this time alone. Add to that the twisting nausea from my conversation with my dad, and the continued buzz of my mom’s texts? Yeah. I’ll even take Trips’ shitty attitude over more silence in my room.

“Welcome back,” I call, as I catch up with him at the bottom of the stairs .

“Glad to be out of that hellhole,” he says, continuing up. After a second of hesitation, I follow him. He can tell me if he wants me to leave him alone. It’s not like Trips is ever worried about hurting someone’s feelings.

“That bad?” I press.

“Worse. And my sister’s unraveling. She’s going to make some mistake she can’t take back, and then our father will have her fuck-up to hold over her. He’ll use that to keep her locked into his shit when she needs to get out. It’s too late for Trevor and me, but she still stands a chance. And she’s going to throw that shit away.” His bag is nearly unpacked by the time he finishes his tirade.

His eyes meet mine, the blue of his as icy as the frost on the window behind him. “Fuck. If I was around more, I could act as a buffer, maybe keep her from spiraling. But being there fucks me up, Clara. And I’m no good to her drunk off my ass and ready to throw the first punch.”

It’s then that I notice the faded bruise color under his eyes, the blood vessels cracked around his irises. Suddenly, this burst of honesty makes sense. “Trips, are you drunk?”

“I stopped drinking this morning. I’m good.”

“I’m not sure you are. It’s not like I got promoted to confidant.”

He runs his hands through his hair before stashing his bag in his closet. “I was fucked up basically since I left yesterday. But I’m good now. I’m not the kind of guy who drives drunk or some shit. But I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. So I guess, Crash, you have officially been promoted to confidant by virtue of you being here while I’m emotionally fucked up and exhausted enough to tell you about my shitty family.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He slumps onto his huge bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders folding in on him. “In other news, I have some really fucked up information to share with the team. It’ll hold until tomorrow, though.” He shakes his head, staring at the ground. “God, I need some sleep.”

“Same.”

“Tell me something good.”

Taking a risk, I perch next to him on the mattress. “I’m not sure I’ve got anything good for you.”

He tilts his head so his eye catches mine. “At least tell me things didn’t get worse in the last thirty-six hours?”

I look down at my lap, not wanting to bring him any lower.

“Fuckity fuck balls. Do you want to tell me now? Or wait until Walker gets back?”

“I don’t want to tell you at all. You’re going to be pissed.”

“What the hell, Clara? What happened? Did your shitty cooking skills half burn down the kitchen or something?”

“Why would you be pissed about that? Fire-crisped kitchens are the landlord’s problem, not yours.”

“Right. So not the kitchen, then?”

I tug my hands inside my sleeves, the urge to drum my fingers against my thigh almost unbearable. “We should go downstairs.”

Trips’ big hand traps mine inside my sleeve. “How bad, Clara?”

“We’ve dealt with worse.”

With a groan, Trips hauls us both to our feet. “Show me. If it can wait, we’ll deal with it when everyone is back. If it can’t wait, we better hope that Walker is better rested than we are.”

My head spins now that I’m back on my feet, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since the cookies at dawn o’clock. Shit.

I don’t say anything though, and lead Trips down to the kitchen, my hand still enveloped in his, my shirt an unwanted but necessary barrier between us.

Shoving the offending card and photo across the island at him, I slip my hand from his, moving to the fridge to see if anything looks edible. I end up with some yogurt and an apple when I get brave enough to look back at Trips.

Gratitude for whatever deity watches over me flares when I see Trips’ anger directed at the rectangles of paper in front of him, rather than at me. “When?” he asks, as I grab a spoon.

“I opened it early this morning. But it showed up on the porch yesterday while I was out for a run. And the photo, it’s from the night before Jansen and RJ went home.”

“You should have called.”

“You didn’t need anything else on your plate. This isn’t urgent. The photo was taken outside, not inside. RJ upgraded our security. The only time I left the house today was while I was video chatting with RJ, and it was just to pull in a package from the porch. And let’s be honest here, Trips. We have dealt with worse. The fucker couldn’t even come up with an original insult.”

His burst of laughter surprises both of us, I think, as his eyes get big when the sound leaves his mouth. “Fuck, Clara. That’s the part that makes you mad? ”

Swallowing a mouthful of yogurt, I shake my head. “The whole thing pisses me off. But really? Whore? The idiot gets one tiny hint of what I’ve been up to, and he passes some moralistic bullshit on what was a wonderful night between consenting adults? Shame on him. At least, I assume it’s a him.”

“It’s almost always a him. Have you heard from Bryce?”

“I thought he was in jail.”

“He’s supposed to be. I’ll message RJ. He’s got access to all that stuff.”

I stare down at my yogurt, my hunger fading. “Can it wait until after Christmas? I don’t want to pull him away from his family.”

“You know he’d gladly be pulled away for you.”

“Please?”

I glance back at Trips, and he’s shaking his head, eyelids drooping. After a second, he shoves the card and photo away from him, once again cradling his head in his hands. “Fine. But I think we’re going to have to get the guys back early. The shit I found out? It’s big. And a mess.” He looks up at me, and if it made any logical sense after those words, I’d say he pities me.

What happened at his house that would make him pity me ?